Peace of Mind
by ryoku1
Summary: Alfred's life on the Moon is unspeakably boring, but an unknown threat on the rise gives him his much desired break of boredom, and so much more. An attempt at a serious Sailor Moon AU/fusion
1. Prologue

The screen flickers to life, bobs and sways. It's a bad recording; Alfred knows this but could seriously care a lot less. It catches her movements, the control of her body as she shifts from one spot to another. It shows her beautiful legs and how the little green skirt whispers over them when she pivots. And if he looks hard enough - and he often does - Alfred is sure he can see just a glimpse of what's under that skirt. Her hair is perfect, an enviable shade of shining gold as it relocates itself to compensate her movements. It whips around and clings to her bare shoulders in lovely strands.

All these things are important. Together they all add to why this is one of Alfred's favorites, but to be honest there's another blatant reason he likes it best. It's at 26 seconds in when her fist connects with a guy's face. It's raw, bloody, beautiful, and every time Alfred watches it he feels chills of excitement do a number on his spine and shoulders.

It's a bundle of pure unbridled perfection wrapped up into a 38 second cell phone clip, and God does Alfred love it. He's got pictures of her – in fact he keeps three of the best ones in his wallet so he can look at them when he gets bored or lonely in class - but they don't compare to actual footage. Nothing can compare to actual footage except for the real thing, but Alfred is planning on that too, so for now this slice of perfection suits him just fine.

"I think you're obsessed."

Alfred knows that voice all too well. He stops the clip to swivel around in his chair and offers Matthew a smile, but it's forced and unpleasant at best.

"I thought you said you'd stop sneaking into my room."

Matthew matches Alfred's smile with a pout and folds his arms over his chest. He's leaning on the far wall of Alfred's room, right next to the open door.

"Al, she dresses up in a skimpy outfit and assaults people on the street in broad daylight. You're hero worship of her is really creepy and very disturbing."

They've done this before- in fact they do this almost daily.

"You said you'd stop coming into my room without my permission."

"She's a common criminal Al, why is it so hard for you to understand that?"

Alfred is out of his chair at that, and stalking over towards his younger brother.

"Take it back."

Matthew shrinks a little, but doesn't back down.

"Even if she isn't some crazed criminal, I'm sure she thinks people like you who pore over every picture and replay every horribly shot cell phone feed are disturbed and need clinical treatment."

"I'm not obsessed, I'm in love. This is the woman I'm going to marry."  
Matthew rolls his eyes and shifts his head to give Alfred a sideways glance.

"Really, Al? A violent woman that runs around barely clothed? I thought you had better standards."

Alfred keeps is temper in check - exhale, inhale – and tries to let out all of his tension before continuing. When he does speak again it is even and controlled.

"We've done this before Mattie, she's a hero. Not some crazed vixen - a hero - and I love her. She's beautiful, powerful, everything that a good woman should be. And it's not like she goes around asking for people to take pictures of her. Everything that's out there are split second sightings. I wouldn't like a woman that went out of her way to turn heads."

Matthew's obviously looking unsure now. He can handle it when Alfred blows up and is upset and angry, but when he's calm Matthew has no footing.

"I didn't come here to argue with you about your disturbing high school crush. Mom's done with dinner."

Without another sound Matthew slips from the room, closing the door behind him.

Alfred watches as his brother leaves, and waits till he can't hear Matthew footsteps any more before turning back to the computer. He takes one more look at the video as a sloppy smile spreads across his face.

"I, Alfred F. Jones, and going to marry you, England. You can bet on it."

Somewhere, a slight man with green eyes, straw shaded hair, and bushy eyebrows sneezes. He wonders if he is coming down with something.

Reviews are lovely! I'd really love to hear what you think about it!


	2. Chapter 1

"_Man has thrived in space since the disaster, but there is debate about how much was lost in Earth's sudden decline."_

Alfred's history class is probably his least favorite. This isn't to say that he doesn't think history is interesting - he rather enjoys the subject – it just so happens that this particular class and this particular teacher are not to his liking. Most days – like today – the instructor speaks a few meaningless words and promptly turns on a very dull video. No deep meaning discussions on intergalactic relations. Neither are there any lessons about that abandoned rock that remains their closest neighbor. Not only does this fly in the face of all Alfred thinks history should be; he is also sure that most of these videos in question have been around longer than the dome and by default are horribly out-of-date.

_"We've gotten a hold of space travel and self-preservation, but a lot of our advanced technology has been lost."_

It is during these rather droll videos that Alfred most enjoys pulling out his pictures of England. He loves to look at her shapely form – sigh - and run his fingers up and down the picture as if he is feeling her smooth porcelain face. But today it seems that Matthew has somehow gotten a hold of his possessions. The pictures are gone. It is quite a damn shame really, he's paid a pretty penny to get those beautiful photos touched up from their original condition and rendered on high quality photo paper. He hopes that Matthew has done nothing rash like throwing them away - which sadly is a very possible outcome. Matthew holds no love for Alfred's wife-to-be.

_"There have been several expeditions to Earth in an attempt to explain the possible causes of Earth's rapid deterioration and to retrieve much of what has been lost, but for some reason all missions have remained unsuccessful."_

Since he is unable to fixate upon his prize, this day Alfred is allowing his eyes to wander towards the window instead. It is a nice warm day, just like every other day before it; just like the forecast has scheduled. He remembers hearing that on the Earth they'd only been able to guess the weather, not schedule it. Alfred thinks the idea is strange. All his life the weather has been dictated. There is never any deviation. The weather is boring. Just like everything else.

_"This is not to say that humanity has not found its place in the universe. We've colonized many planets in our solar system, and there are various independent stations that are self sufficient."_

There is an interesting rumor that circulates England. There are accounts that she is capable of bringing down the rain in rough, violent torrents; that the sun's rays are compromised because of the dark clouds that follow in her wake. It is a silly notion; that one woman in a miniskirt can cause the dome to suddenly spout rain. And it's not even normal rain; not the passive showers that the farming units often receive, but real, brutal sheets of water. It is a ludicrous idea, but perhaps that's why Alfred is so intrigued. It isn't physically impossible, just highly unlikely, and that is what draws Alfred's attention so. The unknown has always been a source of excitement for Alfred – probably because there is so little of it in this modern world where everything is dictated. Day in and day out it is always the same. He goes to class, he goes home, he goes to sleep; rinse and repeat. The weather is always planned, his day is always planned, even his future – the college degree, the engineering slot he'll take when his father retires – is also, painfully planned; all of it is-except for England, of course.

_"But one must wonder about our true home. Like a child leaving, we must remember what the Earth has taught us."_

England is Alfred's wild card. A beautiful femme fatale that is either going to ruin him or make him the happiest person this side of the sun. And that is the excitement in it all! Alfred honestly has no clue how she is going to affect his life, but she is going to, for better or worse. Alfred is sure of this, needs it to be so.

_"And maybe one day humans can return to Earth and pick up the pieces that our ancestors have left behind."_

The monitor flickers until it fades and the lights come to their full splendor. Alfred continues his daydreaming as the teacher steps forward and speaks a few last words before dismissing the class. Alfred prolongs his departure, choosing to wait till everyone had filed out of the class room. Once alone – the teacher has left as well – Alfred lets out a sigh. School is boring, home is boring.

He forces himself from the chair and reaches down to retrieve his bag. It is in this instant, as he bends down, out of the corner of his eye Alfred spots something through the windows pane. He isn't sure what that something is, but it is grey and small and moving. Excitement takes him and refuses to let go. Alfred grabs his things in a rush, and run from the room. He passes the lockers and shoves his way through students hurrying from one place to another. He briefly remembers hearing Matthew calling after him, but Alfred isn't paying attention.

He runs into the sunshine of the outdoors. He looks around expectantly; hoping that whatever his eye had caught will give its location away once more. It might be a rabbit, or something similar; an animal of some sort that has escaped the boundaries of its protected zone. This does not happen often, but Alfred has found a few previously and gone to great lengths in catching and returning them to their homes. He hopes to do something similar today; it will help with the monotony.

Making sure that he is quiet, Alfred drops his bag by the school and edges forward. He waits patiently for a sound, some movement, anything to tell him where the little thing is hiding. A soft rustling to his right alerts him to a large bush. With delicate care Alfred creeps over to the plant. He tenses his arms in anticipation, readying himself to fling them into the brush, but he never gets the chance. Just as he is ready to plunge, a large head pops out of the foliage.

It isn't like anything Alfred has ever seen before. Definitely not an animal he knows to exist. Its head is rounded - like any other animal – and its grey coloring is also a normal attribute, but it is hairless with huge red eyes that gaze right up at him. For a while Alfred and whatever it is seem to stare at one another, both in utter shock that they are being spotted. It doesn't take long for Alfred's instincts to take the better of him. His hands move at rapid speed, and quickly wrap around the rather large head and hold.

The animal struggles in the tight grip, and little grey fingers shoot up to push at Alfred's hands.

"Let go of me, yank!"

At the squeaky voice that emerges, Alfred quickly lets go of the thing and gazes in sheer disbelief. The little thing plops onto the ground and starts feeling at its head, massaging and rubbing it.

"D-d-did you just t-t-talk?"

"No, it was the bush. You've got a hell of a grip." The thing's voice isn't something pleasant, it's more of a screeching sound and is much harsher than Alfred thinks it should be – not that he's had any sort of experience with strange speaking creatures. The thing continues to cradle its head, and if Alfred wasn't in total shock before, he is now. Those large red eyes are glaring at him with quite a bit of disdain, but Alfred is too wrapped up in his confusion to register that fact.

"B-bushes don't talk…" Alfred mumbles to himself more as an afterthought than anything else. He doesn't even realize what a stupid thing it is to say, he only comes to that conclusion when the thing calls him on it.

"Of course they don't, bonehead. I was being facetious, if you know what that means."

"I know what that means," Alfred defensively counters, but the retort lacks any sort of bite. Alfred is still far too flustered to continue thinking very rationally.

The thing stops cradling its head and rises to its full height. Alfred steps back just a bit, amazed that it comes all the way up to his waist. "Anyways; I'm Tony. You're a sailor scout and I'll be needing you to save the world."

"Hi Ton- wait what?" The first response is conditioned, but he cuts himself off and interjects the question as things start to sink into the first layer of his skin. Alfred's face furrows in confusion. Tony only cocks his head and folds his arms in front of his rather small chest.

"You heard me, yank. You'll need to save the world."

"Ummm… does it need saving?"

Tony huffs and glares at Alfred some more before speaking again.

"Why the hell would I tell you to go save the world if it didn't need saving?"

Alfred takes a step back and straightens himself before bringing his arms out in front and waving them.

"I don't even know what you are, or how you can talk; you don't even have a mouth!"

Tony rolls his eyes – or what Alfred thinks is a roll of the eyes - before looking at Alfred once more.

"I'm an alien. Your primitive human language was easy to learn, and I don't need a mouth. Now are you going to actually listen to me or not?"

"You're an alien? What? Humans have been in space for almost a hundred years, how could we have not discovered you already?"

"Cause humanity's primitive. That's the only reason I've got for you."

"Ok, so you're an alien." Alfred almost chuckles at that. "Alright, say that I do believe you - which I don't - what is this saving the world thing?"

"The world is being overrun by energy-sucking aliens. Can we stop with the hundred questions? You really don't have time for this."

"Aliens again!"

"What's wrong with aliens? Most of us are highly advanced!"

Alfred pauses and takes in the information as he studies the ground. He turns back to Tony before continuing.

"So why would aliens want to attack us?"

"I explained that already! These kind of aliens feed off of human energy!"

"Ok, so let me get this straight." He points at Tony, "You're an alien." Tony nods and Alfred moves his hand to point at himself, "And I'm a hero that's going to save the world from human-sucking aliens."

Tony nods. "Dumbed down, yes, that's what's going on."

Alfred takes another moment to digest all of the information before a wide smile splits his face in two.

"Cool! Let's kick some alien ass!"

Tony rolls his eyes, his whole head moving around in the process before his gaze settles on Alfred again.

"This is taking too long. Now that you've got the basics take this and say 'America Star Power Make-Up'."

The alien produces a golden star and hands it to Alfred, who in turn takes it expectantly. He brings the item up to his face for inspection.

It looks like a medal of some sort, the like of which Alfred has only ever seen in history books or museums. It is of a beautiful golden color that shines and glistens in the sun's embrace. The gold star is framed by a circular wreath, and a bar above the star connects the medal to a blue ribbon with white stars scattered across its surface. Engraved on the bar is the word 'Valor' and from there a golden eagle sits perched, with its wings spread and beak open.

It is a stunning piece to behold - something Alfred expects to find fading and rotting in a museum, not being handed to him by an alien - but there it sits, as bright and vibrant as the sun in his hand. He shifts the item and watches as the light bounces off of it, he smiles at the item, the warm feeling it gives him, and turns back to Tony.

"Is this really for me? I've only seen these in museums!"

"Stop ogling and use it! We're running out of ti-"

A loud crash cuts off whatever Tony was about to say. Both of them turn towards the noise. It doesn't take long for Alfred to switch from shock to movement. Sure that he will be of some use to whatever is taking place, Alfred runs in the direction of the disturbance. He doesn't notice, but Tony wobbles after him.

The sight that greets him is something Alfred had only thought possible in a bad TV show. There stands a woman, only, it isn't exactly a woman. Her face is contorted into something hideous, more elongated and rougher than it has any right to be. Her body is also lengthened, but the real shocker is her hands. They jut out farther than her body should allow and look more like roots than hands. Each individual piece of the woman's hand – and there are tons of them, more than Alfred is willing to count - moves swiftly on its own, weaving and chasing as they strive to grasp at something green darting away from them.

It is then that Alfred realizes that green thing that is so expertly escaping the monster's clutches is England. The figure dodging the monster's authority is undoubtedly England in all her glory; green miniskirt fluttering in the breeze, blond hair struggling to keep up with her swift movements, and the cursing that sounds like water flowing from her pursed lips, it's all a part of an essential whole.

Alfred is stunned into silence. He watches, mesmerized at her every movement. It is then that the monster takes notice of him. Its eyes widened and the roots that were chasing after England's lithe form not two seconds prior, are instantly changing directions, going straight towards him. In the face of such danger Alfred's system panics and starts to shut down; the imminent attack is getting closer and closer and his body refused to move. He just stares in complete horror as danger gets closer and closer. But the offending articles never touch him, the roots stop right before they reach him, and he hears a large guttural grunt coming from the direction of the monster. And there is England, laying her fists savagely into the thing again and again.

It looks hopeful, like she is giving it a hell of beating, until the roots zero in on her. The blond seemed to notice this, and quickly springs away, but it isn't fast enough. Roots wrap around her ankle and spin her around, as if she is nothing more than a ragdoll. England's face scrunches in concentration as she struggles to escape, but it is to no avail. She isn't making a sound, not cursing or screaming – and Alfred has to love her for that, cause he'd be bawling like a baby if it was him in a similar situation. The creature lets out a sickening laugh, jerks her around some more, and then tosses the young girl aside.

England sails through the air till she collides roughly with a street light with enough force to bring it crashing down around her. Time seemed to slow as she falls and crumples to the ground, coughing and sputtering. The blond tries to crawl back up but she is beaten to it by the roots, which violently continue to shove her from one place to another. She continues to try, a testament to something Alfred can't quite place, but the roots are relentless and never let her up.

Alfred then realizes; this thing is going to kill her. His England is going to be murdered by some mutant plant thing, and he is sitting here watching it. Fire courses through his veins and Alfred moves to help her, but a small hand firmly grips his wrist. Tony looks up at him with something in his eye Alfred can't distinguish, and shakes his head no.

"If you want to help her, follow me." the alien says before pulling Alfred away from the wreckage. There is still sickening laughter flowing from the scene and the sound is only fuel to Alfred's growing rage.

"But she needs help now!" Alfred growls. He tries to pull away, but Tony is much stronger then he looks and somehow keeps Alfred in his grip as he pulls them even farther away. "She's going to die! I need to help her!" Alfred doesn't care that his tone sounds desperate now, that it is rough but pleading at the same time.

"You can't help her as you are! You'd only get yourself killed."

"You said I was the hero, so let me save her!" Alfred rips his wrist away from the alien and turns to go.

"Say it!" The alien speaks with such finality that Alfred stops in his tracks turns to look at him in confusion.

"What?"

"'America Star Power Make-Up' If you want to help her, say it!"  
Alfred looks at Tony in confusion before he allows the words to slip softly from his lips.

"America Star Power Make-Up."

The world explodes into color.

* * *

Ok folks, I like all the alerts, but this is here because I was thinking of dropping it. Please let me know if you like it. You'll make my day if you leave one.


	3. Chapter 2

It is a dream that wakes him at 3:14 that evening - or morning, if you prefer. Or perhaps it is the dream that takes place at 3:14.

At first it feels as if he is awake; Ludwig can feel the sheets that cover him, and knows that he is in his bedroom tucked away from the rest of humanity. But there is wind, great gusts and torrents of it that echo throughout his small room, and that is not normal. It is something for old clichéd movies; the ones where the breeze tousles the protagonist's hair at just the right time for the key dramatic scene. It is not for Mercury, and it is certainly not for his own room.

Ludwig turns his head towards the wind that is prickling his face and there in the window is a woman. If Ludwig needed any more convincing that this is a dream, now he does not. Women do not sit on windows of fourth floor apartments.

He scoffs quietly at himself. Ludwig likes to think that his dreams are not of this style or formula. Obviously he is wrong, and the thought makes him feel tacky.

Ludwig can not see her face; her long silvery hair is reaching towards him, being jerked around by the wind as the strong torrents rush almost violently into his room. Her hair is entirely in the way, and does not look attractive in the least. It is obviously unkempt, sloppy; it looks clumsy – if hair can look that way - as if water is holding it together and ripping it apart at the same time.

She is balanced on his window, but there is nothing graceful or alluring about how she appears. She is squatting on one leg and the other is knelt, with her leg hanging out of the window. It does not occur to Ludwig that her leg should not be dangling like that, that it is unnatural. All Ludwig can think is that it is an unattractive stance for any woman, dream or not.

The thought strikes him that this woman should be beautiful, because she is not an ugly thing under close inspection. She is shapely and well-rounded in all the proper areas and from what he can tell she could easily turn heads, but as she is there is nothing that Ludwig can find about her that is either enchanting or beautiful.

Her small skirt is in tatters and slaps against her thighs in a rather sickening manner; it slops and Ludwig realizes that it is rather stained. Her hands are gripping the wall, and Ludwig notices that she is shaking and fumbling to hold on as best she can. It worries him to some degree - in his right mind he would have rushed to her aid - but this is a dream and there is no place for movement.

Despite how ragged she looks, and though Ludwig can not accurately make out her face because of the incessant wind, there is a wide grin on her face. It is not a look Ludwig has ever seen on a woman's face before and it confuses him, because it is familiar and he can't place it.

If this is meant to be a fevered wet dream, Ludwig is very confused.

Seconds pass like minutes, and finally she moves. One of her hands, still shaking like a leaf, is letting go of the terrace. It fumbles for a while until it reaches towards her neck. Ludwig notices that there is a ribbon adorning her throat, and that a glistening silver something is attached to it. Ludwig can't make out what it is, but his brain screams not to look, not to recognize.

In one jerking motion the little thing is off of the ribbon, and into the woman's hand. She struggles, reaches it out; thought the action seems rather pointless. Her frail shaky fingers can't support the item's weight and it fumbles out between pale digits. Ludwig watches with something akin to morbid fascination as the wind picks up the item and whisks it from gravity's pull. The item rides the wind till it is safely placed on his nightstand.

Ludwig looks at the item; recognizes it. He rotates a puzzled look back to the woman but the wind becomes more violent. It moans and swirls around him, threatening to take his blanket with it. Ludwig sees a glimpse of her face – a resigned smile and tired red eyes that glisten - before he has to shut his eyes from the wind's assault.

Ludwig thinks there is a sound, perhaps a word or two spoken, but he can't decide what it is; the wind is suddenly unbearably loud.

Things settle far too quickly. One moment the wind is abusive and the next there is an utter absence. He opens his eyes and there is no trace that anything is amiss or ever was. His room is immaculate, nothing has been overturned - his sheets don't even look like they've been ruffled. The window stands solemn. Closed, just as he left it, and there is no sign of a figure perched on his window.

Ludwig shakes his head and rolls over. He dreams of summer, and the watermelon that Kiku insisted on smashing.

* * *

Ludwig wakes to the sound of screaming. In his haste to get down stairs he does not notice the small cross on his night stand.

* * *

Whatever is taking place is warm and blinding and strange and marvelous all in one sporadic go. For a second he knows everything; for a moment he feels everything. Things are shifting and changing in ways that Alfred can not even begin to fathom. Its something his brain can not wrap itself around, the door is swung open but just as quickly it is closed again. The event leaves him wide eyed and curious, and he blinks away his utter confusion before pivoting so that he can rush back to England's aid.

Only he doesn't move seamlessly as he should. Instead, he turns and tumbles over flat on his face, balance an utter loss to him. There are things that he starts to notices as he groans and struggles to get back up. His hair is hanging in his face, and it seems abnormally long. In fact, Alfred is sure that he's never allowed it to get that long in his life, so the idea is completely foreign. It's strange, cause it hasn't been that long since he got a trim either, but Alfred brushes it off. The real issue is his chest, because it's hurting, more so than it does when he normally falls; a lot more. Once he is has hoisted himself up into a sitting position Alfred tries to massage the area, because surely there has to be a reason for his chest, of all things, to hurt this much. His fingers fall upon something squishy; he can feel it as he gropes at them and then all movement stops. Alfred slowly angles his gaze downward.

He screams. It's the first coherent thought in his mind; that he should scream, and the sound is loud and shrill and it is certainly not bhis/b voice. Tony is somewhere cackling loudly but that is totally the last thing on Alfred's mind at the moment. His eyes are glued to his chest, and they must be bulging out of his head, and his mouth must be hanging out in mock horror, and it's probably a pretty funny sight, but Alfred would be hard pressed to give a damn.

He has breasts.

This revelation is cut short when there is a loud crashing sound filling his ears. Whatever the hell has happened to him will have to wait. His – or is he a she now? – England is in danger, and there is no way Alfred is going to leave her to fend off that thing alone. Alfred scrambles up as best she can, cause for some reason she's wearing heals, and damnit if it's hard to walk in them. It takes a few moments for her to steady herself before she dashes off, struggling to stay upright. Running with a relatively big rack and high heals is a lot harder that in looks.

"Remember, you're America!" Tony yells as the blonde takes off.

When America reaches the clearing, the monster is in her sights but there is no England to be seen. America panics and searches the area frantically, her head turning rapidly in either direction because England has to be here somewhere. America won't allow herself to even think there is any other option. It goes unnoticed that the monster has taken notice of her, had seen her the instant she stumbled into the clearing, both the first time and second.

When America does notice the vine-esque arm-like appendages are already headed towards her at rapid pace. Her brain searches desperately for something to do, but only one solution takes shape in her mind. America narrows her eyes; feels the fire and energy coursing through her veins, more so than she can ever remember. She pulls back with her right fist in preparation – her plan is simple; pound that thing into oblivion, cause she's always been a bit of a powerhouse, and she knows she can take it. She's poised and ready, but never gets the chance.

"Fucking imbecile!"

America has just a moment to look to her right and see England charging towards her before England grabs her hand and the two are running, or perhaps it is better to say that England is running and America is trying not to trip. The taller blond struggles to keep up, the pace seems inhuman, and a part of her wonders how much it would hurt if she tripped and fell. But there's no time to think much of the subject for England is not relenting, her grip choking and comforting at the same time. America doesn't look behind her, but the sounds of mayhem are enough to make her want to try, after a near slip she abandons the thought and concentrates on moving; attempts to keep up.

"You can't just pummel it, you have to kill it." England doesn't yell the words, but it carries and is piercing so America easily hears her. She doesn't understand what England means – because England herself laid in her fists, it seemed like the right idea – and gulps loudly. America is going to ask exactly how she can kill that thing when alarms sound in her head. Something is coming towards them, and from the sound of it the vines are closing in from behind as well. America doesn't know what to do, there is danger to the front and danger to the back, and England is still charging straight for it.

Trying to help America suddenly tries to stop, but England grunts and keeps her moving. They're about to crash, and America prepares her self for collision, but England does not disappoint. She is full of surprises. Just as the claws reach them England jumps, and it isn't any sort of normal jump. It's more like a super powered jump of awesome, because they soar through the sky for a few seconds, America holding on for dear life as the two of them easily ascend up a five story building to land seamlessly on its roof.

America notices that the vines are twisting and curing in on one another in the clearing, having narrowly missed their target. They're flailing and searching desperately to try and find them, and it gives America some kind of hope that they have done the right thing.

"That saved us a spot of time." England's hands, firmly placed on America's shoulders, are helping to steady the taller woman and then their eyes meet. For a split second they stare - green meeting blue - and there is something there, in that gaze, that America can't possibly place. It's a strong feeling, like longing and fear and sadness and relief and understanding and still more that America can't place. It's the kind of look that could change your life, or at least that's what goes through America's mind. It's something like that, and it all just feels overly complicated for some reason. Something definite shapes coils and waits in the pit of America's stomach, and she doesn't quite know what it is.

But as suddenly as it started it is gone again, and for some reason England is straightening America's sleeves and dusting off her shoulders. The action feels so very maternal that a part of America, some unexplained part wants to just hold England forever. But America doesn't. She just watches as England fidgets, and buries the thought that England is refusing to look at her eye to eye any more.

"You're going to have to concentrate, my power is ineffective. This won't be easy for you, first time never is, but you'll get it."

England is fretting over her – the smaller woman is still tidying and inspecting America for possible injuries. Then England seems to realize what she's doing. There is a sudden rigidness to her stance and England blinks. There's a sharp intake of breathe and in slight hesitation her hands remove themselves from America's person and instead move to take up residence at her sides. England takes a small step backwards, and America can only feel like the older woman is distancing herself; for some unexplainable reason.

"I'll instruct you. Haven't gotten much left, but it'll do." England nods, more to herself than to America, and moves to take a stance. The smaller blonde positions herself in front of America, facing out towards the clearing and America feels as if England is trying to shield her from a possible assault. America reaches for England's shoulder, because she does not want to be protected – wants to be the protector herself - but England's swift exhale stops all of America's movements. England's right hand suddenly swipes upwards and America can hear glass shattering from somewhere. And then there's water entirely encasing them, almost like a bubble.

America looks on in amazement as the vines stumble over one another to violently crash into the water. They're easily deflected, but they don't stop - they just keep banging, pounding and pounding. America wonders how much the shield will manage, but doesn't say anything. If it does break, then they are sitting ducks, and thought that isn't a pleasant thing to be contemplating, but America can not help but think it. She can see those vines gripping onto them, ripping them to pieces and panic starts to set in. What is she doing here? She should be in class, not about to be ripped to bits-

"America"

And in a blink all those potentially damning thoughts vanish.

England's right hand is still extended towards the water, and she won't turn to look at America, but her tone isn't trying or annoyed, or even labored; it's just even. The word seems to let America's mind calm. There are layers of reassurance in that one utterance that she can not fathom – and a part of America wonders how exactly England has this power over her thought they've never met before - but it brings America out and makes the strength inside of her writhe and pulse with purpose.

"Now you listen to me. Close your eyes."

America hesitates, there is no reason she can see to do what England has commanded, but she has resigned herself to England's experience. So even if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth to not see, America does what she is told.

"Now reach out with your mind. You should be able to feel me."

At first there is nothing, just the familiar darkness that always greets when eyes are closed. America doesn't understand what England is asking her to do, but she tries anyways; imagines as if she could see with her eyes closed, tries to reach out for anything.

At first there's nothing, and its irritating, because this should work and it isn't and maybe England should have described what she needs to do better and that banging is getting louder and louder. And then, faintly, something is reaching out towards her. It's a gentle something, or perhaps right now it is a gentle something, because America can tell that it radiates strength. What ever it is, its calming, and America exhales and reaches for it with her mind.

This thing – it's blue, a deep sea greenish blue- is coaxing her to widen her gaze, and tentatively America does just that. And things start to take shape. America can feel the water - coursing with the same blue essence - around her. She can feel England right in front of her, and realizes that it was England's aura that had beckoned her forward.

"Farther," England instructs softly, and America strains her mind to reach for more. But it is no easy feat. A sort of pain starts to lodge in her head, and inch by inch it grows increasingly stronger. America has to ignore the pain as best she can and push. Then suddenly she can see everything, the seeping darkness that encircles the two of them and the ones that are still banging against the shield. It sickens her, because this energy is bubbling with perverted intent and it feels entirely unnatural. The feeling won't leave, she's not even close to it, but it's as if she can feel that energy oozing and pulsing around her and it makes her want to violently retch right then and there.

America almost does, her eyes flutter open and her concentration completely dissipates. She reaches one hand to her mouth and the other to her stomach.

"Not the time!" England mutters and this time it is obvious that she is annoyed, the irritation drips from the statement and America has to force her self to focus. She brings her hands down to her sides again and closes her eyes once more.

She reaches forward just like she did the first time, and this time it's better, because she expects the unease and nausea that pass over her. It isn't any less disturbing or disgusting, but America chants to herself that she has to deal with it and that she will.

"What now?" America asks, more tentatively than she'd like to admit.

"Concentrate on the energy that's yours, but don't lose sight of what's around you."

America hadn't notices it before, but when England mentions America's own strength it's as if a bell goes off. Power; a blaze of energy is coiling in on itself inside of her, and it crackles to life, acknowledging her attention. It's a warm and comforting sensation, and America almost does forget what England told her about remembering her surroundings. Almost.

America nods, she knows that England can see her, though the smaller woman is not facing her. She notices that England's aura is getting steadily lighter, that its graceful flow is starting to seam forced and cognate; a part of her worries.

"England-"

"You're going to channel that. Your energy. You must be precise, shape it correctly and when the time is right force all that energy forward to catch one of these roots. Doesn't matter which, but once you have it, you've got to force it through, all the way to the main body."

America doesn't quite understand what England is asking of her, but she offers an "Ok" and tries to focus on shaping her energy. Her flaming orange aura at first seems to agree, but after a few seconds of trying it flares up and rages out of her control. She tries again, and again, but nothing seems to work. It frustrates her, and she can feel her irritation rising, her temper starting to boil.

"England! This isn't working!"

The spell is broken when England's hand reaches, - it must be the left, because the right is still sustaining the shield - and grips America's. The world seems to melt at that exact moment. An unspeakable clam washes over America, her fried nerves and her raging energy all slow, and America can once again feel and know things very clearly. England's sea is melding with America's inferno and taming it.

"Now concentrate, I've done the hard work for you. Close your eyes and don't think of anything but that power and mine."

It is unspeakably easier this time. America coaxes the flames and they move at her will, completely pacified simply by England's presence. The raging mass has turned into something cohesive and solid and useful. America poises herself, because this time she's ready.

"When I pull back, channel it into my hand and I'll force it through. Don't hesitate for a second. Just get it there and sustain it. I'll handle the rest."

America nods her approval, and waits for when she will feel England's energy pull back from the barrier. She doesn't wait long.

Once England's hand has fallen, America shoves. Heaves her energy into England's hand and almost recoils. England's aura is rejecting her, America can feel the energy panicking as it loses its composure, and America's energy feeds off of its weakness. It's fizzling – and the sound distinctly reminds America of screaming. She wants to pull back, and tries to but England grips her hand fiercely.

"Open your eyes and look at me!"

America complies. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the vines wrapping around the two of them, about to strike. But England has demanded her eyes, and she gets them.

"It's ok, America, its all right. Just remember what I told you."

Just as America feels the vines wrapping around her skin the flames erupt from England's hand. Its an untamable blaze, and the roots it catches writhe and slither and flop and burn into unrecognizable masses. The power is entirely destructive, and leaves little in its wake.

"Concentrate!"

And America does, she remembers the role she has to play, and forces the flames to spread rapidly, they happily comply. The monster tries desperately to stop the inferno's assault, even going so far as to the cut the roots already caught in the flame's grasp, but there is no escape. The blaze catches from one vine to another to another until the thing is a flailing mess of flames, screeching like a banshee.

Then suddenly the scene is done. The monster cries one more unbearable screech, melts, bubbles and dissolves into ash and soot and filth. There is nothing to show for its existence except for the destruction of the area.

America wants to cheer and holler and say exciting things like, "Fuck ya Mother Fucker!" at the top of her lungs, but once the deed is done all she can do is collapse into a heap on top of the building. She is left speechless, blinking and sputtering as the event rewinds in her head over and over again. She doesn't realize that she is still tightly grasping England's right hand until the smaller woman gives her a little squeeze. America looks up, England is inspects the area with a critical eye and America tightens her hold. The smaller blonde shifts her gaze down and America takes the opportunity to tug the other woman down with her.

There's an indignant squeak that erupts as England tumbles down on top of America, but all America can do is wrap her arms around the other woman. And sink her face into the other woman's chest. And then America is crying, totally bawling and she can't possibly think of a reason why. America tells herself that it must be because all of this is so new and nothing makes any sense and she so – fucking - did it! She killed the what ever the hell that was and she proved that she could be the hero and everything is once again right with the world.

There's a deeper reason as well, but its something that America can't understand yet, but it is nonetheless compelling.

So America buries her head into England's chest – cause in her mind England's chest exists so that she can nuzzle it – and just cries her eyes out.

If feels like forever, but hesitantly England's hand reaches to America's back, rubbing comforting circles. England's voice, gruff and sweet at the same time follows closely after at a whisper, assuring America that he did well and that everything will be alright and all sorts of other nice things that America can't exactly remember. But it's so damn comforting as she ever so slowly slips into oblivion.

* * *

It is only once America has fainted, and Alfred rests in her arms that England allows herself to lose an ounce of her composure. She wouldn't have if his big lumbering – strong – arms weren't still holding onto her, even in unconsciousness.

She doubles over on top of his still figure, grips him fiercely, rubs her face comfortingly against his strong shoulder blades and breathes in his scent. This is the closest she will allow herself, because dreams are for the young and stupid. For idiots like Alfred, who will marry a nice wife when all is said and done and will definitely have a happy family.

When the fae descend upon her, twinkling and twirling in excitement England is no longer on top of Alfred, though her grip is still strong. The fae would tease her for that, but they are hungry, almost turned mad at the feast they will take part in. There will be much blood to abate their thirst – England can feel it already - but that cannot happen yet. England still needs her strength.

She takes care in shifting Alfred, so that his huge lumbering arm is slung over her shoulder, and stumbles up. He is not light to carry, and she is not in her best shape, but England knows she will manage; is happy for the distraction. She mutters her request to the fae as people start to wander into the area and see the destruction. The fae whisper into her ear and dance around one another in excitement, but they do as she asks, and the pair, she and Alfred, vanish from all human eyes.

It takes England a long time to stumble to Alfred's house and to deposit him into his bed. She takes great care in tucking him in, because that feels the natural thing to do, and hesitates before pecking him on the forehead.

"Sleep well, poppet…"

* * *

Francis turns the key in his lock, readjusts the bag hanging off of his shoulder and stumbles into his apartment. He hears the faucet stop and is not surprised. Tonight he can only worry, because the world makes a little bit more sense, and not nearly enough yet.

"Arthur."

It isn't a question, because he knows that Arthur is here. Often is.

"….Living room…." Comes the unslurred response. Francis would question why his neighbor's speech is so well this evening, but he doesn't. Perhaps he has run out of alcohol. Whatever the case Francis is thankful. They must talk.

He moves into his bed room first, taking the time to place his duffel bag onto the bed and to put away the items he took with him. It isn't much, just enough clothing to last him a few days and the items he needs every day. Once they are all away he makes his way into the living room, where Arthur is slumped on the love seat.

The lights are still off, so Francis flicks them on. He stifles a gasp at the sight. Arthur is a mess; he's slouching on the seat because it's obvious he doesn't want to put pressure on his back. His legs are spread and twitching involuntary - never a good sign. It looks like he might have cracked a few ribs, and his left hand – to Francis' trained eye – looks as if it has been cooked well-done.

It shouldn't surprise him - to see Arthur so disheveled and injured – because he sees it a lot, but there are other matters on Francis' mind that question. Is there possibly another reason for these things? A better excuse than the perpetual bar fights and Arthur's insatiable love for violence? Has Francis always dismissed Arthur's wild delusions too quickly?

For now there are no answers. Arthur is in a horrible state, and as per usual Francis takes it upon himself to fix up the poor drunkard.

"I can't feel my legs."

"The way they flop like fish tells me as much," Francis mutters as he gazes from the living rooms entrance.

Arthur grunts but doesn't move, which is probably better. Francis takes his time sauntering towards the other man so as to look over Arthur more thoroughly. With great care Francis unbuttons the lose shirt that Arthur is wearing, and slips it off. When Francis gently takes the man's shoulder and pushes him forward so to see his back, Arthur hisses.

It's a mess. Francis wonders if he was hit by a truck or something, but doesn't comment, just sighs and pushes him back.

"I'll need to take you downstairs. I can't work on you here."

Arthur groans, sinking farther into the loveseat. "I don't want to move."

"You have no choice in the matter. Might have injured your spine, I can't check that here."

Francis can tell that Arthur is trying to come up with some sort of an excuse as to why he shouldn't be moved, but after a moment of having his mouth hang open the green eyed man clamps it shut.

Francis gives him an aggravated look and moves to pick up the other man. Arthur doesn't do too much complaining, though that might have more to do with the fact that he's obviously exhausted than anything else. They stumble through the door way and down the stairs into the clinic area. The lights flicker on as Francis throws the switch and ambles through the room to find a bed.

Francis tries to be gentle, but Arthur hisses at every step. Finally he deposits the man on one of the many beds. Francis moves from the bed as Arthur settles in. The machinery hums to life as Francis softly mumbles to himself. He doesn't notice anything wrong till Arthur stops him.

"Francis, what are you saying?"

Francis waves his hand in dismissal and does not turn to address Arthur. _"C'est rien vos affaires, l'Angleterre."_

Something crashes, and Francis turns around, rather perturbed.

_"Qu'êtes-vous jusqu'à ce temps?"_

Arthur is trying to get up, with one hand and possibly a broken back. It would be funny if Francis wasn't the one patching him up. But he is, so Francis saunters over and shoves him back down.

_"Arrêtez, vous pourrait se blesser encore."_

"Francis, you aren't speaking English."

The statement hits him like a brick - he hadn't. Francis pulls a blank. He doesn't know any other languages, but this one flew off his tongue, dripped out as if it was born on his lips. He's got no explanation, and his brain desperately searches for one.

Arthur's laughter wakes him from his daze, and Francis looks at him in mock horror. His question has been answered and he wishes that he still did not know.

"Ah, so that's how it is."

Arthur continues to laugh, probably so violently that he'll injure himself in his current state; and Francis desperately wants him to just stop.

* * *

Sorry for the delay. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you think. Thank you for your time.


	4. Chapter 3

At 7:14 the phone rings, and Yao knows exactly who it is. He snatches the ear piece in one sudden movement and attempts not to glare at it. He fails. For a time he does only that, stare at the item with absolute disdain. It cries again, and he shoves it on to his ear - taps the small button.

"The answer is no, Ivan," Yao deadpans in greeting. He walks to the bathroom. His foot falls sound clipped and precise to his ear, and it calms him somewhat.

"But you answered; this is an improvement, yes?"

"If I hadn't you would have woken up the entire household. I don't live alone, as you well know. Be considerate of my family." Yao approaches the mirror, looks at his reflection for a few seconds, trying to remember if that mark on his left cheek has always been there. Was he born with it? He doesn't recall. There are many things he cannot remember.

"Your strays?"

Ivan loves this; seems to give the hulking man some sort of advantage. Ivan has sisters, blood. Yao has something thicker or maybe thinner, but it is not blood - will never be.

"I'm done, Ivan. You're an egotistical drunkard and your upcoming book on my political intrigues is bound to keep you well-stocked of fire water for the rest of your miserable life. So if you don't mind, just dance your way out of my life."

Yao gives up looking at the mark – is it a scar? – and closes his eyes. He tries to calm himself. He's grown a temper over the years – how many has it been now? How old is he these days? Not old enough or too old? It's hard to say – cultivated it, and the blemish seethes and coils and simmers at Ivan's beck and call. Yao hates that.

"But I do mind. That is the problem, you do not listen. We used to be -"

"That has nothing to do with this. If you didn't live in the past with your sunflowers and vodka w- you, wouldn't be having these problems."

Because it's true; Yao is not Ivan. Is not like Ivan – how old are you? – will never be like Ivan. There is a here and there is a now and both require him more – more than what?

"No, you would find something else to be unhappy about. Of this I am sure, comrade."

The last word is emphasized, and it resounds with well hidden malice that Yao is overtly accustomed too. They've never really gotten along, have they? Their shared history – don't use that word – is made up of steely glances, forced pleasure and a color not easily shared – but neither of you have that color do you? What's the use in it any more?

"Bite your tongue. I've no wish to continue speaking with you."

Yao's tone is smooth. Silk to the ears but not to the touch. He opens his eyes again and reaches for the brush, methodically running the item through his long black hair – why don't you cut it? It makes you look feminine. Because it's always been long, would feel weird if it was short – stroking and smoothing it.

"I will see you on Thursday. Let us both play nice, yes?"

"Thursday?" The moment it's out of his mouth Yao regrets saying it, and the brush stills for a second before resuming. He's falling for Ivan's bait. Rationalizes that he will play along for now – because that's what you usually do, play along without any intent to do anything – because he likes to understand and to hold things higher then hands can reach. He has always been fond of information.

"Ah, perhaps Yao has not yet heard?"

There is silence as Yao decodes that playful tone in Ivan's voice, - it doesn't take long enough, he thinks. Shouldn't be able to know exactly what it is implying within seconds. He does not like it one bit.

"Ivan, what are you alluding towards?" Yao knows already, can smell it over the distance; from Mars to Pluto from Pluto to Mars. Why give Ivan the satisfaction – say what I know you will say, speak as I know that you will.

"Who would you expect to die unfulfilled? In a ditch perhaps, if we had ditches..."

Yao's blood flows and coagulates cold. He doesn't care, promises himself that. He's far too old – he almost laughs at that, it's a funny thought – to be overcome with grief and to anguish like some star crossed youth like Ivan would want him to. They both know it, but Ivan is trying hard to get a rise – because Ivan likes him rough and ragged and real, has never liked his façade; his supposed inner peace. Ivan has never cared for liars.

Yao refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"Arthur?"

"нет, not that kind of a ditch; broken but not bleeding. This one splattered, made a right mess of a fine sidewalk"

He can not say that he expected it – because you're human, and humans do not expect the worst, or are you? – but it does not chill him like it should. Jaded? Perhaps.

"Do we know what has transpired and how to mend this impasse?" A question that has already been answered; Yao knows what Ivan will do, but will let him speak – because I shouldn't know what he's going to say. I don't want to know what he's going to say.

"We can find a replacement, da?"

You've already found one.

* * *

Alfred doesn't wake with a start. He sifts into consciousness, still not sure that he is awake until he spots light and notices that the sun is peaking out of his window. He squints for a few moments then rolls over. His chest hurts and his body aches, can't bring himself to ever want to move. It's like he ran a marathon, his legs are cramping and jelly-like. He wonders if they'll move when he does actually have to stumble out of bed.

An hour later, when he finally gives up on ignoring his inability to continue sleeping, he struggles out of bed and his legs actually do give out on him. He slumps to the floor with a small thud and huffs. It takes him a while, but he forces his legs to move, and when he gets up he stumbles around his room in an attempt to stop limping – cause seriously, there's no way he's letting anyone see Alfred F. Jones limping. It would give them the wrong impression.

"Took you long enough, fuckin' yank." Alfred freezes and turns. Sitting in front of the TV, playing something - with headphones on no less - is a thing; 'he's an alien,' his mind supplies helpfully. The thing – Tony - seems to be enjoying himself, though Alfred can't understand how he can like that slow paced horror game. I mean, all you have is a flashlight; no huge guns or high tech explosions, just creepy things that you run away from.

His mind supplies that Tony likes those types of games. Alfred doesn't question.

"Ummmmm…what are you doing?"

"Don't distract me. I've only got two more encounters before the big boss. So shut the hell up."

"But-"

"When I'm fucking done, please." Alfred pouts to himself, takes a seat next to the alien and watches.

Within ten minutes they're yelling at one another – "go to the left! Your other left! No, the spider things in there! Oh God is that a ghost!"

"God dammit! Can't an alien play a mother fucking game in peace? For Christ's sake shut your fucking face!"

"But it's coming, you have to get away from it! Don't let it bite you!" – as Tony's head rattles in irritation and Alfred waves his arms then covers his eyes then grabs onto Tony in anticipation.

Matthew enters the room to that scene.

"Alfred, shut up," Matthew groans loudly. He looks at his brother, catches a glimpse of the game on the screen and his frown deepens. "You don't even like that game, why are you playing it at this hour in the morning?"

Alfred turns to his sibling, sputtering and trying to explain. Matthew huffs - ignores him - and walks right back out, shutting the door in his wake. Alfred continues to look at the closed door in confusion before he turns back to Tony.

"Um, did you introduce yourself to Mattie? Cause I kinda thought he'd have a few choice words to say about you and he totally didn't…."

Tony rattles his head again in irritation and does not turn to address Alfred. "Because he can't see me, dipshit."

Alfred mouths an 'Oh' and nods his head slowly. "'Cause I'm the hero and Mattie isn't?"

"Something like that."

Alfred brightens and straightens himself just a little. Then as the fact starts to sink in so does everything else. Alfred's face scrunches in utter confusion and he side glances Tony.

"So, um, this is a weird question but…..why exactly did I turn into a woman?"

Tony rattles his head faster in irritation, the clicking noise that accompanies the action suddenly striking Alfred as very strange.

"When I'm fucking finished!"

* * *

"I'd rather not. You'll remember on your own." Arthur's speech isn't slurred or even off beat.

Despite what everyone seems to think Francis knows what an articulate and intelligent person Arthur can be when he's had just the right amount of alcohol. Just enough to loosen his tongue, to let him shine; it's a hard mix, but there is always about a half an hour when Arthur is truly himself. Before he is a raving lunatic more apt to maim than to converse, but after he is a desperate addict looking for his next fix.

Sometimes Francis wonders if these short spurts are worth their destructive friendship wrought of lies and deceptions and mistrusts. He need only experience it once more to reassert his opinion.

"I am. Remembering, that is. Just little things, like the language; if someone spoke it to me, I don't know if I would understand, but…"

"You would. It's yours, has been for a rather long time. But that will not erase the unfamiliarity. Never really dissipates, that."

Francis would laugh if he wasn't hanging off of Arthur's every word. Much of what Arthur says is still a riddle; something to dissect, to pull apart and mangle and then maybe to understand.

He wants to ask questions and get answers, but if he pushes too hard there will be nothing left, and Arthur will turn volatile. So it's best to let him just go as he is.

Francis has every intention to do so, but his cell phone rings. He picks the item from his pocket and looks between it and Arthur. If he leaves now it's a good chance he won't get anything else from the blond. Francis flips open the phone none the less and excuses himself from the room.

When he returns – confused and possibly afraid – Arthur is gone. Despite the healing back and the corrective measures Francis labored over the night before so that Arthur can move this morning, Arthur is gone. Francis curses, clicks his tongue and moves to the bed room. Perhaps some rest is in order.

* * *

Alfred, being the patient person he is – "What do you mean there's a secret boss you want to get first!" "How long has it been now that you started playing?" "Oh come on, this game is such utter bullshit, that can't be the real storyline, it doesn't make any sense!" "How can you stand this its so –Holy Mother of God that Thing's going to EAT YOU!" – sat and watched as Tony played his game.

After a good hour the alien was finally wrapping it up. Tony watched as the end credits rolled on screen, twitching at a few names here and there. Since the credits were always the most boring part about finishing a game, Alfred felt no remorse in starting to talk again.

"So seriously, I've got a lot of questions to ask."

"I might give you some answers. But it is only the third chapter, so don't expect much."

Alfred gives the alien a strange sort of look before continuing. "Ok, so what exactly happened back in the alley?"

"You transformed into America," Tony deadpans, obviously not giving much effort into the answer. Alfred, in response pouts and scrunches his eyebrows in irritation

"But that doesn't tell me anything!" he mumbles.

"Not my problem. I did answer the question, be grateful yank."

Alfred offers a small glower before shaking off the failed response. "Ok, fine. So I'm assuming that 'America' is my secret feminine superhero alter ego and that it's kinda like how Superman has to keep his glasses on when he's Clark Kent so that no one knows who he is, but instead I turn into a super hot babe in a mini skirt with a pretty impressive rack. Am I right?"

Tony turns to him, and if Alfred is right the alien looks rather impressed. "Surprisingly, yes. You're not as dumb as everyone thinks you are."

Alfred thinks over the response for a few seconds then shrugs. "I guess boobs are a better disguise than glasses….Ok! So I'm a transgender super hero! Next question!"

"Didn't know you knew that word…" Tony's mumble goes unnoticed as Alfred continues with his questioning.

"What was that monster?"

"And you were on a roll and everything, we did this the first chapter! It's an alien! Get it through your thick skull!" Tony's head rattles in irritation again.

"Oh ya, you did say it was an alien! Wow, this is going much better then I thought it would." He pondered for a few more minutes before speaking his next inquiry.

"How did I get home yesterday? All I remember is being on top of the building…" iand snuggling up to England's warm, inviting bosom/i.

"England carried you home. I'm far too delicate to be lugging your dead weight anywhere."

Now this surprises Alfred. He tries to imagine little adorable England dragging him home, and it's hard to picture. He's not a slight man, and England is a rather small girl in comparison. Not to mention all of the other problems this event would bring about… "How did England know where I live? And how did she get me into my bedroom without at least letting my parents know? I'm sure if they had found out they'd be up here asking fifty million questions…"

Tony shrugs. "England has probably known where you live for a while now. It wouldn't surprise me if you were being watched well before I came into the picture. In fact, I'd venture a bet that England is here because you are."

Alfred perks at the implications of that statement. If England is just as interested in him as he is of her than them becoming an item would be a hell of a lot easier. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean the Moon. England is probably on the Moon because you are."

Alfred mulls over the question for a second, and then brightens. "So, like, I'm the main hero, and she's my super amazing sidekick. And because we're fated to be the best alien/monster/what ever the fuck fighting machines that she was inexplicably drawn to my amazing…ness?"

Tony rattles his head again in obvious irritation. "Sure, why not? Sounds good."

Alfred beams. So snagging a date with his beautiful sidekick should be a synch. Every sidekick pines after their hero, it's a normal convention in super hero movies, so by default England is going to fawn over him and totally want to go on that date he suggests. "So when do I get to see my beautiful, amazing sidekick again!"

"Knowing the limey you won't catch another glimpse till another monster shows up. But the minute one does, she'll be there." Tony looks disinterested now, he's fingering the controller.

"Oh…" Alfred can't hold back the disappointment in his voice. "You mean even though we're destined to be an inseparable team of amazingness, I can't meet her again? Like, when we aren't saving the world 'n stuff? Ya know, like for coffee or maybe a trip to the mall?"

"Her? Nope, no can do, unless you try to find him. You could probably meet him, actually might already have now that I think about it."

Alfred looked at the alien for a few moments, as his brain tried to wrap itself around what exactly Tony was talking about. And then the utter shock dawned on him. If he had a female alter ego, it would stand to reason that England had a male counterpart as well. So that beautiful shapely temptress that had plagued his wet dreams for nearly two years now was, in all actuality, a man.

All coherent thought stopped at that point.

All Alfred can imagine is his beautiful England - well-placed curves, proportionate bosom, cascading golden hair, adorable little pout adorning her face – turning into a distinctly unfeminine man – unkempt straw like hair, gangly arms that didn't quite seem sturdy enough, eyebrows as big as they came, and a perpetual scowl that made the man seem much older than he really was.

His first real thought was that he had to burn the pictures; every last one of them. And the hard drive of clips and information would have to be smashed. It was the only way. 'Cause Alfred F. Jones was not gay, maybe Matthew was a little flamboyant around the edges, but not Alfred F. Jones. He was totally not going Batman and Robin for England.

* * *

Ravis hangs up the phone, knowing very well that he will cry himself to sleep tonight. Even with Peter there he won't be able to help it. He moves back into the class room and collects his things. When the teacher moves towards him in obvious irritation he gives her a pathetic look.

"One of my friends passed away."

She obviously looks taken aback but recovers quickly; tells him that he had best work hard none the less for the upcoming tests and that his parents don't pay her to simply let him walk out of tutoring. She lets him go regardless, with what is suppose to be a reassuring pat on the back. It really isn't, and the awkwardness of it makes him want to wail.

He rushes out as quickly as he can and when he spots Peter waiting at the school's gate kicking rocks Ravis does everything in his power not to simply grab onto him and hold. So he slows his speed and walks evenly, taking a measured breath every time he takes a step.

When Peter does actually take notice he looks surprised, then very excited to see him - the younger bounds over.

"You're out early!" Ravis offers his best smile. He imagines it looks quite strained, he's never been good at smiling at the best of times, and this is surely not the best of times. But Peter is always happy to see him, and that is refreshing; it's only fair for Ravis to do the same.

"I'm doing well on my scores, so I don't have to work as hard." It isn't a lie, but it has nothing to do with why he's out so early. If the actual subject came up Peter wouldn't know what to say, and the two would walk together in silence, and the air probably wouldn't lift till the next day. Ravis loves when Peter just babbles, so he won't say anything at all on the subject.

"That's great! I knew you'd do well! I told you, just have to keep at it! Don't take shit from anyone, always put in 356%!"

Peter continues to babble as they start to trek away from the school. It's a long way to Peter's house, so they've got quite a while to walk - plenty of time for Peter to talk about everything and nothing and for Ravis to enjoy every second of it. His mind wanders to the phone call. Its something he doesn't want to think about, because it hits to close to home. It should have occurred to him before – he's had tons of close calls – but to think that some thing could go so terribly wrong was alien. It took him by complete surprise.

It's chilling, and Ravis wonders how he's lasted this long if someone as strong as- "Hey, are you listening? Don't space out on me again!" Peter is poking his shoulder with that slight pout that still somehow looks like he's smiling.

Ravis blushes, stutters, and mutters an apology. Peter doesn't notice anything wrong and continues again. Surely that is normal, that he wouldn't notice. Because Peter has not known him that long, surely not as long as Ravis has known Peter. But even that is questionable. Some days Ravis has known him for what seems like forever, and some days Peter is a new being; something exciting and difficult to understand. But it's fine, better that way in fact. Ravis takes things as they come. Maybe he is simply young, but these things don't bother him as much. Peter is his biggest reminder, and he is very fond of Peter.

Ravis looks at the younger and wonders how close they'll get this time before something happens. He abandons the thought instantly and instead counts the stars that appear as the sun slowly disappears behind the skyline.

He eventually gets Peter to do the same, alternating numbers between themselves and making a game out of it. Both end up tripping on nothing before they've arrived.

* * *

So Tony had warned him that it was a bad idea. And Alfred - being Alfred – had done it any way.

After the somewhat life-changing realization that England was indeed not a she, Alfred had decided that the rational thing to do would not be to mope around the house like a star-crossed lover – which as far as he was concerned, he definitely was – and instead to continue working out the puzzles that had taken place the day before.

With high ambitions to actually answer the questions that Tony had refused to answer – and to forget his masculine woes - Alfred had set out of his house to a better area, leaving Tony in his room to start on another game. Granted, it had been quite a challenge with how his legs ached and protested at his every movement, but Alfred had never been one to be cowed by physical pain. He simply ignored it.

It was early enough that the park a few blocks from his house was still relatively deserted. So Alfred slipped into the area, and walked to his secret spot - a secluded section hidden by a grove of overgrown trees and poison ivy - and despite all of Tony's earlier warnings, transformed.

This time was similar to the last in respect that it was the same sensations. But this time Alfred was ready for them. When the world exploded into color he reached with his mind, just as En- as he had been told to. But it was too quick to grasp anything concrete. The minute the transformation was done America was left with an unsettling feeling that she was missing something. A light aching had taken root in her system and was rapidly spreading. It made her feel empty; like a cup that was meant to be filled but still dejectedly remained in the cupboard unused.

And strangely, her legs didn't hurt any more. They still felt like they should, but they moved with great ease at every activity she tried. She jumped around, stretched, and even did a cart wheel, but her legs did not ache as they had just a few moments before, there was still that nagging sensation in her head that told her they should, but they did not protest. It was strange, but altogether welcome.

America ignored the new sensations and turned to the bag she'd brought with her. Out of the bag she produced a small mirror – an item she'd had to swipe from Matthew before leaving – and took a gander at herself.

What met her was pretty awesome. She'd already discovered that her rack was rather large – a part of her was very happy about this, though at the same time they seemed too large to her liking. They weren't as well-shaped and cute as say En- never mind. They were good. Fucking awesome.

Her hair wasn't too long – it didn't seem like it would get in the way – but it curled and pooled around her head, giving her a bubbly sort of look. Her face was less defined, more rounded and cute in comparison to the normally long and handsome face.

She looked for a few more minutes before winking at the mirror and pursing her lips in a mock kiss. America then quickly put the mirror back and looked herself over once more; even brought a finger down through her collar to poke at her prominent chest. It was soft, really, really soft, and she felt the blood rushing to her head at the thought. She quickly brought her hands up to cover the blush growing steadily across her face.

As loath as America was to admit it, this was the first time she'd actually felt breasts. She'd been saving her self for En- for nothing. She'd been busy, no time for chasing women.

She waited for a few moments, trying to calm herself from such disturbing thoughts before moving on. America was just about to tackle the biggest problem of all – what was under the skirt – when she noticed something. Tony was running towards her, his arms and legs flapping in a way that would be funny if he didn't look so utterly unhappy – America didn't question how she knew that Tony was angry, just accepted that she did know.

America was about to greet him when something behind her exploded.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter and all of the Alerts added. I'm glad to see that this strange little idea has some support. So, thank you everyone! Reviews are lovely, and I would love to hear from some of you following this! Thank you for your time.


	5. Chapter 4

Whatever is happening the temperature has taken a dramatic peak, and as the world starts to speed up and slow down somewhere in the back of America's mind she is thankful for the skimpy outfit, because it's getting unbearably hot.

America instinctively crouches and covers her head, because something is exploding behind her and she really doesn't have the time to think about the proper procedures. When the explosion seems to be finished she opens an eye and angles her head to look at whatever's behind her.

It's another monster thing - that she is sure of - but this one is very different from the last. This one is a blazing inferno. It seems to have some sort of shape – maybe humanoid - but the fire that is engulfing it is so strong that it's impossible to make out for sure. The flames lick and blaze and curl in around one another and make it difficult to focus on.

It occurs to America that fighting fire with fire is her only option, and it doesn't sound like a good one at all.

The monster roars, and it's something horrible - a screeching rumbling sound that makes America's ears hurt just listening to it. America would cover her ears, but the monster flings a fire ball in her direction, so she has to move, and move now. She does get away from it in a mad ungraceful spurt of movement, but the minute it makes contact with the area she was just in the thing explodes and America is sent flying and tumbling away from the impact.

She collides with a large tree, and something in her mind tells her that her back is going to hurt - but it doesn't, so it's good for now and she doesn't question. She blinks for a second to realize that another fire ball is headed straight towards her. America has just enough time to scramble away so that the thing doesn't hit her, but is thrown again. She tumbles through grass this time. It's a better option than running into a tree, but it's still not ideal. The grass is starting to catch fire and she can feel the temperature rising as each blade of grass starts to burn around her.

This time America doesn't try to take a breather and recollect herself. She knows another fire ball is coming soon, so she stumbles up and sprints towards the monster. She has to get closer, unlike the monster with the vines there is no way for her flames to reach this thing, so she has to close the distance.

She dodges to the right; a fire ball blasts past her and explodes somewhere behind. America doesn't let that stop her - keeps going - moving and weaving around potential attacks.

She's almost there, knows that she'll be there soon and hopes that she'll be able to destroy it in one fell swoop like she did with the other. But the closer she is the harder it is to dodge, and the more fire balls that are thrown, the more areas that are engulfed in flames. The temperature is spiking quickly and it's getting harder to breathe, her lungs heave against her ribs at every breath and it's becoming increasingly hard to keep moving.

But she's almost there, and America will be damned if she fails here; she doesn't have a choice; has to get there.

Not this time, it would seem. She weaves to dodge another fire ball, but something catches her foot and she plummets. America lands hard on her side, and that buzzing in the back of her head that should alert her to pain goes off again, but there's no such feeling. America stumbles to her feet but they aren't moving as quickly as they should and something – it's a fire ball on split second inspection - is sailing towards her at break neck speed. There's no way she's going to dodge it.

America imagines that she looks much like a fish, a horrified, soon to be fried, gaping fish.

She has just enough time to think 'fuck' before strong arms are around her and she's suddenly not in the same place any more. America blinks and she's on a tall building looking down on the carnage. No movement involved; no being whisked away or running for her life or anything of the sort. She even notices that from a distance away the fire ball that was aimed towards her just seconds ago explodes some where she isn't. Just one moment she's there and the next she's on a building being held bridal style by someone.

That's another thing to consider; she looks up and is met by a kind, exceptionally handsome face, brown hair and green eyes. There's a mask of some sort covering a good portion of his face, but she can see a lot. It strikes America that if this was England as a male, then ya, she might be a little attracted to him, cause this man should be in a magazine somewhere taking off his clothes for money. But he isn't obviously, he's holding her in his muscular arms and smiling down at her, and it almost seems feminine, though it could be the little flower in his hair, or the fact that his hair is a little longer than most men's. As much as she likes this guy something tells her it isn't England, the hair is the wrong shade, and the eyes somehow are just not right.

The man reaches down with a gloved hand and places one finger on her mouth. Only now realizing that she was gaping America snaps it shut and can't fight down the blush that seeps into her cheeks. The man seems to chuckle a little at that before bringing America's ear close to his lips.

"England will need time, can you distract it?" His voice is husky and hot on America's ear and she really just wants to squirm out of his hold and blame how hot she is on the fires raging down below them. Instead she offers a jerky sort of nod, stealing another glance at his eyes. They're green alright, but they aren't England's, she's sure of it this time. She fights down her blush. The man laughs softly at her again and gingerly sets America down on her own two feet.

It's strange really, how gentle this man handles her in comparison to how England handled her the last time they met. The thought that surfaces about how it would be nice if England treated her this way is murdered on the spot.

It's only after that rather unsavory thought that America realizes that the man is speaking to her, albeit very softly.

"All you have to do is run. I'll make sure you aren't hit. Just keep dodging, like you were before. You don't even have to get close to it, just make sure it keeps track of you."

America offers a muttered 'ok' though she still feels ridged all over. She's about to attempt to get down off of the building as best she can when the man circles his hand in the air and some sort of dark circular opening appears.

The man offers her a smile and a wink. "Come on, gotta be the hero and protect the princess, right?" Something flashes in the man's green eyes that they both recognize, and for a moment America is stunned speechless. But those eyes shine and sparkle and America squares her shoulders in response and nods.

She enters the portal thing at a run.

* * *

Matthew, as he does every morning, is taking the polar bear for a walk. Cause even invisible polar bears that no one else can see still need to be taken for walks. Else the thing will get impatient and unhappy and start clawing and trying to get out of the house and the last time that happened it made his mother quite concerned that there was an overgrown cat loose in the house.

On the bright side, at the time it made Matthew feel like he wasn't completely crazy. But today, as most days are, isn't one of those days where he's feeling entirely sane. Today is rather strange. First of all, Alfred hasn't assaulted him in some way for his pictures of England back. Matthew has been on edge since the day before, expecting to be jumped at any time by a stalkerish smile and greasy fingers. But no such event had occurred. Matthew had left class the previous day to find Alfred's bag abandoned by the side of the school and when he had come home he had found that Alfred wasn't there.

Somehow Alfred had made it home without anyone taking notice, and that evening when their mother was about to call the authorities – because her precious favorite son would never be irresponsible and just not come home – Matthew had checked his room one more time to see Alfred fast asleep.

So that was strange. And today - their one day of the week off - Alfred was up at 6 AM playing one of the games he didn't even like. Granted it was one of Matthew's favorites – and last he had thought it had been in his room – but that was not the point. Matthew had stormed in without even thinking that his brother would want his pictures back. The strangest thing was that Alfred hadn't even asked about them. Had just given him kaleidoscope eyes before Matthew lost his patience and left the room.

So that had left Matthew unnecessarily on edge this morning.

It's fair to say that Matthew is a worrier. He does fret over just about everything, but a decent amount of his concerns stem from his far too idiotic brother. Alfred isn't the bane of his existence –not by a long shot - but has probably shaved a few years off his life regardless.

The thought makes Matthew bristle. He's the older sibling here; he should be tormenting Alfred and making his life miserable, not the other way around. Not to mention that Matthew has more important things to worry about, like school, his failing social life, the possibility of being a raving lunatic in a world of psychological anomalies and the huge fire flinging monster thing that seems to have materialized out of nowhere and is currently assaulting the park.

Matthew blinks a few times as he takes in the chaos in front of him. He quickly turns around and walks away. Looks like today isn't going to be one of those 'sane' days after all…

* * *

Going through the portal thing places America on solid ground again. It surprises her, and for a few seconds she pauses to take in her surroundings. It doesn't come as any sort of surprise that the fire monster thing is within her immediate vicinity. What does surprise her is the fact that England is dashing around and distracting the monster. It feels like déjà vu all over again, and the scene of England being smashed against a light post as she had watched helpless on the sidelines plays on repeat inside America's head. It makes her feel insignificant, useless and very unheroic.

Not today. While the monster is occupied with England, America allows the fire in her veins to fester and boil. She replays the words that England gave her in their last encounter, about concentrating on the strength inside of her. She takes a deep breath, circulates her energies, and forces the coiling strength out of her hand. It doesn't seem like much at first, just a fist sized flame, but as the energy starts to stop flowing America does everything she can to just sustain it, and then to shove more energy into the attack.

But once America starts to place more power into the attack it goes haywire. The energy rushes out of her in great untamable waves and the small fire in her hands becomes an inferno that's easily twice her size. The power of it scares her; America instantly stops the flow of energy and the flame flickers and dies faster than an ice cube in the height of summer.

Upon looking back at it, America thinks to herself that she wasn't exactly sure what she was trying to accomplish. But the monster's eyes are on her now, England the least of its worries, and that's good at least. Or it is for the few seconds that America has to think before a fire ball is barreling towards her. Then it's a flurry of movements, the brain telling the feet to move, move, move! And the feet somehow stumbling into awareness as America sprints around the monster in an attempt to dodge and to still keep its attention.

Things are blowing up into flames around her, but all of America's attention is on running and dodging and getting away but not too far away. She has to trust that the man was telling the truth when he said that he'd keep her safe, so she just runs and dodges what gets to close, occasionally directing her eyes at the thing just to make sure that it's still interested in her.

America doesn't spot England, which is probably a good thing. She can only assume that England is somewhere preparing for a final strike of sorts. Or at least that's what America hopes is happening.

Its only when things start to get darker does America understand what exactly she's been waiting for. Within moments of realizing whats to happen, it starts to rain. It starts off as a light drizzle, something that is obviously a precursor to what is about to come. And when it starts to grow in magnitude it isn't like any rain that America has ever experienced. This rain is violent and brutal, and the power inside of her fizzles and screams, it wants out and America has to fight tooth and nail with her instincts to keep it contained. It feels like the rain should be hurting her, with how the power coursing through her veins is reacting she should be in some sort of danger, but fear and pain don't register. So America concentrates with all her will and takes cover under a tree that was previously on fire.

The monster shrieks as the majority of the rain beats down on top of it, smothering all warmth from its shrinking flames. The noise makes America want to vomit, and only then does she realize how tired she is. Her brain is screaming that her legs hurt and that her back hurts and that her ankle hurts, and there is a lot of physical exhaustion that just takes hold and won't let go. She leans against the tree and slowly sinks down, plopping down onto the ground with a small thud as the monster continues to screech and whale.

The rain is doing more than just vanquishing the monster, all of the surrounding fires are pacified as well, and once they're out the water pulls itself from the ground and rushes to encircle the monster. The beast in question is thrashing, and more and more water evaporates at every swipe it makes but there is simply too much of it. The monster is weakening and its flames are making a sickening hissing sound and dying.

Within two minutes the whole ordeal is over, the monster is snuffed out by the rain and the water disperses as the rain comes to a soft halt. When all is done America is soaked and the entire park that was once in flames now looks heavily singed, but also that it has been graced with a heavy coat of morning dew.

America stumbles to her feet and looks around. When she finally spots England and the other man standing not so far away a bright smile dons her face and she starts making her way over to them.

She has taken four steps when alarm bells ring in her ears. America has just enough time to realize that something is wrong before the earth around her comes to life, encircles her entirely and her world turns to black.

* * *

"You have found him, yes?" Ivan's voice is not what Yao wants to hear, but it would have been useless to refuse the call.

"No, it has not moved. If it had I would have found it. It is safe to say that it has not left Mercury." Yao does not stop the brush at any utterance, but keeps the brush and its black ink evenly spread and at a consistent pace.

He can see the shake of Ivan's head, even though they are billions of miles apart, and does nothing to stop it.

"If you are sure, Yao. But I remember him; always a creative and ingenious sort of character. If anyone can best you, it will be him."

Yao doesn't huff or get upset. Ivan often runs his mouth and underestimates what he is capable of. It's just a part of who Ivan is that Yao will never be able to change. Ivan is wrong and it will be his privilege to prove it, as Yao always does.

"The man you speak of is long dead, as well as the person he became. It is not a man that we seek, and it is certainly not worth the concern you are lavishing it."

The silence that fills the airwaves is some sort of a comfort. The fact that Ivan doesn't know how to respond somehow makes everything right with the universe.

"Good-bye, Ivan." Without letting the other man respond Yao slowly brings his brush to a stop, places the brush down and taps the small button on the phone. Ivan will not call back for a while. Yao thinks on all of the things he will do without him, places the sheet of paper to dry, and cleans up. He no longer has any desire to reminisce. It's a waste of time.

* * *

America had never once thought she was even the slightest bit claustrophobic. Not in all of her life had she considered it, but as she felt herself being buried alive, she suddenly felt her entire being filled with absolute terror.

One moment she was on her way to England and the other male and the next she was swallowed up by a mound of earth easily twice her size. And now here she was, encased in a tomb of earth and soil. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe, she was in utter darkness, and she knew she was going to die.

She thought of all those stupid horror movies where people were buried alive, only to claw and scream in vain as they suffocated and struggled to their last breath. She thought of how useless her life had been so far, how she hadn't accomplished anything - nothing at all. But more than anything, more than the terror and panic America remembered a song; a lullaby that someone had sung to her in the middle of the night when the thunder and rain and snow had pounded on windows and frightened her. The voice of a soft tenor that had stayed with her all night and hadn't let the boogie man eat her. Had kept every scary dream or wayward shadow at bay; someone dear to her that had cared and had eased her worries. A person she would never see again if she died here.

Knowing more of herself than before, the world exploded into flames.

* * *

England does not allow herself to panic as America is swallowed whole. Her heart beat quickens and her breath halts but she refuses to think of her reaction as panic. The ground itself had risen from its dormant state and devoured America in one giant gulp. England did not panic; she was far to composed, thinking to rationally for this to be panic, but she did rush forward.

She doesn't realize how quickly she is moving, how frantic she must look, but when the earth gives way once more and opens its gaping mouth to take her as well, England is only saved by the strong grip of her companion as he pulls her away from its gaping chasm.

"Careful, you'll do America no good if you are also buried." The man beside her states softly in her ear, but England does not hear it. Surely America cannot breath, she has to get to the younger woman, and it must be fast. The image of America, Alfred as a lifeless corpse is too much for her to comprehend. She only had seconds before America is gone forever, she has to get to her, no matter the cost.

She tears herself free from her companion's grip and vaults forward once again, summoning water in an attempt to soften the soil where America once stood. England is moving, almost able to reach where America had been, but is again grabbed. It is a much rougher hold this time, and she is yanked backwards to crash into her companion's torso.

"England, get a hold of yourself. This is America, she will be fine. We have other problems to deal with." This time there is a hand on her wrist and the other is secured around her middle, but England is not to be deterred. She rips her arm from the man's grip with a snarl and elbows him in the gut before dashing forward.

This time she is not stopped by him. All England can think of is America. America gradually losing breath, America going cold, Alfred being scared and alone, and that motivates her forward as the earth starts to rise up and reach for her. But England is on auto-pilot, she's been doing this long enough to dodge such a slow and lumbering opponent as ground and soil. She channels energy into her legs and feet and at every attempt the ground makes to reach her she simply increased her pace. But after a few seconds it no longer tries to capture her. Instead the form of attack changes, and great raged spikes shoot up from the ground, often missing her by a few inches.

After a few seconds - an eternity - England has made it to where America had once stood. She shoves her energy forward, calling on all of the excess water in the area and plunging it all into the ground, softening the soil. Within second she is on her hands and knees digging and reaching out with her energy at the same time. She has to find America, has to, because that idiot has to still be there. She can't have died yet.

As her powers reaches deeper and deeper, stretches and strains, England finally finds her. Relief overflows her system at the rapid pulsing she feels from America deep under the grounds surface.

It is short lived as a boot connects with England's gut, and the impact of it sends her flying. She tumbles but quickly recovers from the assault, a snarl evident on her face. But once she has caught sight of who has delivered the blow the anger melts into surprise and shock.

England knows the young girl instantly; a blond with long flowing hair, deep violet eyes, and an outfit very similar to her own. Surprise and confusion flutter into England's mind, but she has no time for hesitation.

With one stamp of the girl's foot England can feel the energy coursing through the earth harden, petrify, and force out all of the moisture and all signs of life. The action single-handedly seals America's fate; England can no longer reach her, and she is out of time. America's energy and radiance fade in front of England's eyes and the utter loss that over takes her mind mingles with the rage taking hold and all England can see is red.

"Hungary, water." At the small utterance a dark portal opens to England's right. For half a second all is silent; then with a wave of England's hand great torrents of water shoot through the portal with their aim placed solely on the young blonde.

England envisions the fear in the young girl's eyes and revels in it. The young girl tries to shield herself from it, summoning the ground to protect her but it is a futile effort. There is easily tons and tons of water flooding the area, and all of it gushes forward, completely overtaking the young blond.

England watches as the girl struggles; the water cutting off her air, and the muddy ground around her struggling to keep her safe. It is a losing battle. After a few moments the young girl goes under, and England's eyes gleamed as the water pulls her down. England can feel the water as it shoves its way down the young girl's throat, cuts off her screams, enters her lungs, forces her to stop her futile murmurs.

England is too lost in the hunt to notice as the earth itself starts to quake and shift. She doesn't detect any difference till the earth splits itself and a great pillar of fire and magma forces its way through. The flames lick and steam and evaporate her water as the energy around England hisses and screams. England falters; stumbling backwards even though the flames are nowhere near her physical form she can feel it eating away at the massive amounts of energy she is using to control the tons upon tons of water that have filled the area.

Then, just as suddenly as the fire had erupted, it is gone, leaving America in its wake.

America plummets forward into the water, unconscious, and sinks. At the sight the spell is broken. England's face splits into that of terror. With every ounce of her strength she forces the water back into the portal as quickly as she can. By the time she is done Hungary is already by the two young blondes. Both lay motionless on the ground, but England is rooted to her spot, too afraid to get any closer.

Both of the young blondes look far too pale, deathly white, and it doesn't look like either are breathing. If they are dead it is her fault, entirely her fault.

Hesitantly, England takes a step, and then another until she is close enough to see that neither are breathing. Hungary is on top of the long haired one attempting CPR, but England motions for him to stop. With a wave of her hand, the young girl's body lurches, and from her mouth water flows out. Hungary continues her previous ministrations and England moves her attention to America, doing the same thing.

After a few moments England can once again feel energy flowing within the two. The energy is weak, but it is there; a sure sign of life; at that Hungary and England collapse onto the ground, heaving and achy with fatigue.

A few moments later find Hungary still spent on the ground and England threading her fingers through Alfred's hair, her eyes occupied with the long haired blond, who has yet to transform back.

"How do you suppose she's still a nation?"

Hungary huffs and slowly forces himself into a sitting position. He looks at the long haired blonde for a few moments before he reaches for the young blonde's neck. Hungary pulls, and a long leather cord tied around the young girls neck presented itself, a glowing yellow stone attached to it.

"This is the culprit." With one tug the lather cord snaps, and the young girl morphs into Alfred's mirror image. Both sets of green eyes lock with the yellow stone as its soft glow fades, till it simply looks to be a normal stone.

"This is the reason he did not recognize us; didn't recognize you, or even Alfred." Hungary states softly, holding the item out for England to inspect. Hesitantly she reaches her hand forward, but at the last moment thinks better of it and retrieved her hand. "He would have wanted you to have it. I won't touch it."

"How do you think he came to own this? It's true, they are drawn to us, but this is the first time I've seen one." Hungary continues, obviously avoiding England's previous statement. His eyes never leave the stone, a very sad tint playing across them.

"Matthew must have defeated him. It's the only explanation for why he would attack us."

Hungary nods, her eyes never leaving the stone. "I think so, too. We need to explain to them what they've gotten into. I know you didn't want this for them, but they don't have a choice any more. I don't want to lose anyone else, and it will kill you if they die because of our neglect."

England hums to herself softly before turning to Hungary again. "Think you've enough to get us somewhere safe?" It takes a few moments before Hungary nods softly.

"So, my place it is."


	6. Chapter 6

Ivan opens his eyes and is once more in his seat on the nine o'clock shuttle to Saturn. He had hoped to get some writing done, but his pad of paper and pencil is discarded on the seat beside him in his lonely little compartment. Now, he is very tired, and there is little chance of him finishing anything at all for some time to come. This fact does not frighten him as much as it should. He knows he will be taken care of.

These sort of things always take a lot out of him, and likely always will. He's always thought about asking Yao about it, but never has. Probably never will. In relation to this, how it tires him so is a minor issue. Yao would likely disregard the inquiry entirely. Ivan knows he is far to useful for Yao to care otherwise.

Ivan often knows what is to come, but this is not a vision he can easily discern. It is complicated, there is no question of that, but the vague, the veiled, the concealed, these are things that worry him. If things are not clear then there is always a reason, and Ivan has come to be cautious of that reason. He trusts that things will work out, but Ivan does not do well with uncertainty. Behind it all he is a pessimist at heart.

Ivan really is very tired, he normally is, but this is different. Its a sort of sleep that he won't be waking from any time soon. This was an assault, and he was the loser. Before he allows his eyes to close entirely he fumbles for the phone in his pocket and with unsteady hands pulls up Yao's information. It would be easier to just press 1 to call him – for Yao is the first person in his contacts, and will be until the day they die, he knows this to be truth- but Ivan rather likes to see the picture he has assigned to the other, and that image helps him to fight the monsters that reside within his eyelids.

He stalls for longer than he should before pressing talk. Ivan waits as the phone connects, but when a beeping sound emits from the device Ivan tries again, and again. Yao is busy, probably with something that Ivan has already heard of.

He continues to try until he can't move his finger even that much any more. The phone slips out of his hand and his eyes slide shut. There is nothing more he can do, Ivan is asleep before the phone hits the floor. He is long gone when the phone buzzes back to life.

* * *

"What do you mean you can't do it? You've more in common with the boy then I ever will or ever will want."

Yao doesn't like these sort of calls. He's at the office with no time to be worrying about such things. There is paper work to be done and meetings to be held and all sorts of fun business that not only keeps him well paid, but keeps his less than desirable transactions away from the public eye. He shifts in his chair, and folds his arms across his chest. The picture of 'you're wasting my time.'

"Surely Arthur can handle it. Goodness knows he doesn't do anything else meaningful with his life. He can at least be useful for this."

But then he stops and his head tilts just a few centimeters. The gears are already working.

"Who, did you say you were with?"

The answer makes a smile want to spread across his face, but it does not. There are memories attached to that name, and Yao is not sure if he likes them or not. Either way this is useful, and much sooner than he had expected.

"I see. So they've come as a set."

The talking on the other end of the receiver continues, and his brows furrow for a moment before he seems to right himself. The expression has no place on his face.

"I trust Arthur will deal with the situation. I'll leave that to him, but I would like to be informed."

Yao clicks the small head set off without waiting for the other person to continue and reaches for a button on his desk, his eyes are flooded with possibility.

"Hei, cancel all of my appointments until further notice. No one is to enter my office."

There is no response, but that is just as expected. Yao loosens his tie as a portal opens to his right. He gently rises from his chair and leisurely strolls through it.

* * *

Matthew wakes in a warm bed, but he keeps his eyes closed.

For most of Matthew's life he has been perpetually cold and not only has he learned to live with it, it is a welcome state of being at this point. While Alfred is a furnace Matthew is always a cold winters frost, the two complement each other perfectly. The warm bed is a dead giveaway to something being inherently off about his situation.

The second indicator of distress is that his body aches. It isn't the sort of ache he usually sustains from injuries. No, this is more of a deep seeded throbbing that takes root in his bones and festers - seems too brittle and make them useless.

"You have a fever."

Despite the hesitance and the feeling of impending doom that curls and seeps through Matthew's brain he does not move. He would not be in a warm bed if this person was going to harm him, or at least that's what his mind is rationalizing despite the alarm and panic and the 'Oh God they finally found me, it's all over!' feeling that ferments in his gut. He continues to fake sleep. His mind is all too ready to remember drowning like a rat, and the feel of flesh stuck under his nails that he's never really been able to get out. Perhaps when this man - and it is a man, his gut tells him so – leaves he will be able to slip out of a window, he'll stand no chance like this. His mind screams that he must escape, some metaphorical maniacal bony clutches that obviously mean him no good will are reaching for his throat.

He can hear some grumbling from the rooms other occupant, but it isn't anything that Matthew can make out. After what seemed like forever the other person in the room shuffles back out, still grumbling as the door closes behind him.

Intent on slipping out of the room unnoticed, Matthew wiggles his toes. They respond with a loud pop, its good and bad. He lightly opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings. There is a window to his left. It is the first thing he notices and he tries to rush for it. It's no use, his body strongly refuses. He barely keeps himself from collapsing onto the floor, and instead melts into the bed once more.

Not knowing how to deal with this situation any other way, Matthew reaches for the cool piece of metal that should be in his pocket. It's always there, but for now it is not. His brain starts to panic; his first line of defense is entirely missing. He reaches for his neck, and the thin strap of leather is not there either.

"Looking for something?"

It disturbs Matthew that he didn't notice the man walk in, but there he is, leaning against the wall with a scowl on his face. Matthew tenses, but doesn't move. He wants out of this room, away from this bo- man more than anything. So Matthew keeps his eyes glued to him and tries to breath calmly.

The room remains silent until the other man hmph's to himself and pushes off of the wall.

"It isn't here, and we're on the 14th floor. There's nothing here that can assist you, so you'd best start talking before I get impatient with you boy." And it might not be malicious, - it seems that way – but it is surely impatient.

Matthew offers nothing, he doesn't want to entertain the thought of speaking to this person; Makes it harder.

Seeing that he's not going to get anything out of Matthew, the other man's scowl deepens and it is only helped by his large eyebrows.

"My name is Arthur. Who am I to you?" Despite the edge to his voice, there is softness there. It's not something Matthew wants to think about, but the words form in his mouth before he can stop them. He has no power to stop them, and he's not even sure he understands them fully.

"A long journey; you were merciful, violent; a God send for the weary, a victim of the opportunistic and a reaper of the peaceful. But now you are dust, and the White Cliffs that were once a comfort are covered in soot and grime."

A violent smirk spreads across Arthur's face and it's enough to make Matthew's worry peak. He's seen that look before, it does not bode him good will.

"If I am dust than so too are you. Your precious forests burned, your waters run with poison, and ice is all that remains of the beauty you once were. You're a sullied disgusting piece of rubbish. I bet you can't even tell me your name, Matthew."

Hesitance flashes in Matthew's eyes, but it lingers only a few moments, and Matthew fights down the urge to ask. He wants to know, has been so unsure for such a long time. But this setting will not do.

"It doesn't matter. Your days are numbered, and once you've been flayed in two I'll be the one to reap what you've sown and profit from your demise. You've no hold with me."

The grin spread on Arthur's face doesn't falter, it actually seems to spread.

"Is that so, boy? Are you so sure? I think I've a much tighter hold than you give me credit."

* * *

Alfred wakes to soft voices that he can't quite find. He searches with his eyes for a time, but gives up after a few seconds and just lets the warm blankets and soft bed eat him. He really does not want to get up. Ever. There's a deep sort of hollowness inside his bones, he feels they'll shatter if he moves to much, and if that's not a good reason to stay in bed then he doesn't know what is.

So Alfred flexes his toes and tries to slip peacefully back into slumber.

"I saw that. If you're well enough to pretend to sleep you're well enough to eat something."

Its kinda scary, cause Alfred didn't even realize that the woman was there. One second she wasn't and the next she was. It was disturbing, to say the least. Granted, he was never the most observant of people, but he would like to think that when a beautiful woman carrying a tray of food – and it was a lot of delicious looking food mind you – walks into the room that he would be aware of it.

As Alfred continued to ponder this the beautiful woman – and now that Alfred has a decent look at her, she is beautiful, though she looks weary, tired and strained, like she is much older than she lets on – takes a graceful seat at a chair placed next to his bed side.

"Sit up, I can't very well set this down if you're laying about like that." The woman chides him playfully. Alfred nodded dumbly and does as she has instructed. It takes some doing, his bones are just as brittle as he imagines them to be, and they creak and groan at his movements. Once he is situated she leans over and places the tray on his lap.

The spread is impressive, to say the least. There is an open faced sandwich with freshly cut slices of ham and bacon that still seemed to fizzle on bread that looked distinctively homemade. A large platter of deviled eggs sit to the side with individual slices of bacon and sausage taking the other half of the dish. There are also a few pancakes on the far right of the tray, with a few slices of French toast accompanying them. Sliced pieces of bell pepper finishes the food portion of the ensemble, and a nice steaming cup of coffee wafts under his nose.

He must surely have died and gone to heaven. Without any sort of preamble Alfred digs into the food, tearing and gnawing on it as if it would be his last meal. It only takes him a few moments before he realizes that the woman is softly giggling at his display. A soft blush falls over his cheeks, and Alfred attempted to slow his eating to a tolerable level. The woman seems to notice and waves her hand dismissively.

"Go on, eat up. I thought soup would make you feel better, but I guess Arthur was right. He said you'd want to eat the whole house when you woke up."

Alfred is already finished with the sandwich, has nibbled on some pancakes and devoured most of the deviled eggs when he realizes there is something peculiar about that statement.

"Arthur?"

He didn't notice it before, but when the name leaves his lips a warmth seems to flicker in his chest. It leaves him feeling empty, alone, and unspeakably sad. There's no reason for it, but suddenly he wants to mourn forever, to go to sleep and never wake up.

The woman smiles, and it's a secretive smile, though it's laced with sweetness. It leaves him with mixed feelings. She nods before continuing. "Yes, Arthur. You haven't met him properly yet, but he looks out for you, in his own strange little way."

Alfred thinks about that answer as he munches on some bacon, ignoring the feelings that flood him.

"So he's a stalker?"

The woman squeals at that and has to fight down giggles as she covers her mouth. Her face is also an unhealthy shade of red now "I guess you could say that. It sounds so unromantic though!" She's only joking, though Alfred really fails to see what is so hilarious. Suddenly he's not in the mood for much of anything anymore. The food doesn't even seem good.

"I don't see whats so funny." He mumbles to himself, but she catches it and silences her giggles. She offers him a comforting smile.

"Maybe you'll understand one day. But I digress, do you remember what happened?"

Alfred thinks on that, shoving away his strange emotions in favor of more food. He remembers not being able to breathe, absolute darkness that guaranteed nothing but death. Then flames, he can remember flames everywhere. The fight before comes to mind as well, but all of it is overshadowed by the fear that had gripped him at the time. The fear of death, not being able to do anything. Its all he can think of for a while, but then he looks over at the beautiful woman and realizes she can't know anything of this. She'll think him an idiot, a crazy person.

"No, I don't remember anything. Did you, find me, somewhere?"

She smiles and giggles at him again.

"There's no need to lie, you did save the princess." She winks at that, and the statement jars Alfred's memory, and suddenly it fits. This woman has brown hair, green eyes, a flower in her hair, and is unspeakably beautiful. Suddenly it all clicks, and at the realization Alfred springs away from her and off of the bed in surprise.

It's a bad idea, it takes only a few seconds for him to crumble to the floor as his legs give out on him. Suddenly his breathing is heavy and he's hot and uncomfortable and really, moving was a horrible idea. He's also ruined the meal she cooked for him, its now splattered dejectedly on the floor. But this she was a man not to long ago. He carried her bridal style and made him all hot and bothered and that's really not what any woman mysteriously transformed into a guy should be able to do to his female alter ego.

Alfred is far to confused about this whole male to female thing, and now this too. Does he still like women? Is he attracted to men? Does it depend on if he's a woman or a man at the time? All of this is just too confusing!

When he comes to himself again Alfred is once again in the bed, and the woman is cleaning up the spoiled food on the floor. She smiles at him as she takes it all out of the room, and it isn't long till she comes back and sits on the chair by his bedside once more.

"I apologize, I didn't mean to startle you,-" She doesn't sound surprised at all, just amused, "-but at least you recognize me now. I'm sure you want some answers as to what exactly has been going on, so I can fill in some of your gaps if you'd like. I'm not sure how much you've figured out on your own, so you can ask me any question you'd like and I'll answer as best I can."

Alfred doesn't want to look her in the eyes. He sees that handsome man and feels uncomfortable every time she looks at him. Its unnerving, and something he's not used to dealing with, at least she is a woman now, he supposes. But he does have questions that he needs answered. Tony didn't fill him in on a lot of things.

The thought of Tony filters through his mind and Alfred goes cold. Where is Tony? Alfred hasn't seen him since the fight, and even then he can't remember what happened to him. There are so many things to ask, but thats the first thing that leaves his lips.

"Where's Tony?" There is urgency there. Tony has been a guide of sort, and Alfred worries that something horrible has happened to him.

The woman looks at him strangely, and he knows in that instance that she has no idea what he's talking about. He visibly shrinks. The alien is probably in some sort of trouble right now and Alfred has no idea what to do. He wants to vault off this bed and find him, but just moving a little ended up with him on the floor, he doesn't want a repeat of that so soon after.

But the woman interrupts his thoughts, and doesn't let them linger. "My name is Elizaveta Héderváry . Its a pleasure to meet you. You're Alfred, right? I've heard a great many things about you."

* * *

The blond watches from the behind a building as the lithe woman vaults away from the monster, feeling horribly inadequate herself. At best, she's able to run without tripping, in comparison to the woman who has come to her rescue, the young blond has nothing she can offer to this fight.

So the blond cowers behind a building as the monster tries to reach for the lithe woman.

Some day Latvia hopes to be as skilled at this as China is, or that one day this line of work won't be necessary at all.

China flows around the monster for a few more seconds of observation before she takes up a position. Her right hand goes rigid and she raises it up slowly as the earth around the monster shapes itself to contain the thing.

With a snap of China's left hand magma starts to stream out of the earths hold, and the monster screeches like something horrible. Latvia covers her ears and closes her eyes, but does catch the look China is sending her way.

That look demands and expects from the small blond, and she shrinks under it before concentrating her powers. When Latvia reaches out to the cage of earth, she can feel that the temperature is already exceptionally hot. It doesn't take much coaxing to make it much, much hotter, till there is so much heat in that small area that any person close enough to it would be burned within seconds.

At that point the screeching from the beast stops entirely, and Latvia can tell that the thing is already dead.

"Cool it down." China states softly and Latvia nods before reaching out once more to bring the cage and the magma leaking from it to a reasonable temperature once again. This takes quite a bit longer, but all of the magma starts to harden, entirely encasing the remains of what was once a monster. Afterward, Latvia feels rather exhausted. She nods softly to China and the other hums softly in response.

Within seconds the cage of earth has been swallowed by the ground once more, and before her eyes China returns the area to how it was before the monster attacked.

It takes some doing, but before long it looks as if nothing happened at all. Latvia is always surprised at how much the others can actually do, and how inadequate she truly is.

When she is done, China turns to her and gives a slight scowl. "You could have handled that on your own. You are a contributing member, learn to act like one."

Latvia shrinks in on herself and nods, looking at the ground.

"Stand up. You're a Sailor Scout. You need to start acting the part. You're here so that someone doesn't have to rescue you when something comes along. Take a more active role in this or you won't survive."

China is talking about Gilbert, and the thought makes Latvia cower more.

Within a few minutes Latvia is replaced by Raivis, and China with Yao, but the strained air doesn't lift. Yao is still looking at him as if Raivis should be much better at this by now, and Raivis continues to cower.

"You'll never do anything on your own if you don't try. Someday you'll have to deal with these things on your own." Yao doesn't look at him when he says this. He is instead straightening his tie.

"We don't need someone who relies on others. You're on Venus, its a gateway to the rest of the galaxy. The influx of incidents we've been having is because you aren't doing your job. So stop shrinking from your responsibilities."

Raivis hates disappointing, but he is trying. Despite that fact, there is nothing he can say to Yao, the words just will not form. Raivis stands there cowering, as a distinct ringing noise starts to sound. The dark haired man grasps for something inside is jacket. It takes Yao a few minutes to find it, but once he's got the phone out he scowls at it again.

Yao mumbles something about drunk fools before answering with an aggressive "What is it?" From here Raivis can hear nothing on the other end of the phone, but what ever it is, Yao looks less pleased than he did before. Yao seems to growl in someway and snaps the phone shut before turning back to Raivis. "You have to start contributing. Either you learn to be self sufficient, or they'll eat you alive. There are no other options."

Raivis cowers and Yao goes back to his phone, he flips it open once more and starts a call. He waits and waits, but eventually he shuts the phone without saying a word. Raivis is to wrapped up in self-pity to notice the look that flashes across Yao's face for half a second. It is long gone before even Yao realizes it was there.

Once more Yao clicks it on, and types out a number. He waits, and when there is no answer Raivis can tell that something is off about this situation. Yao turns to him, and the hardness in his face has diminished to something else entirely. Worry lines are starting to show on his face, and the thought that Yao worries at all, strikes Raivis very hard.

"Something is wrong. Something is very wrong."

* * *

The familiarity that washes over Elizaveta when her door bell rings is not a welcome feeling. Alfred had been in the process of asking her something when the bell rang. It is lamentable that their conversation has to be stopped so soon without her really giving Alfred any answers, but there is nothing for it. She holds up a hand to stop Alfred's chatter and turns away from him. Roderich should be opening the door right about now, and something about the situation makes her very on edge.

Elizaveta turns back to Alfred. "Stay here, and do not come out. That is an order." Without any other explanation she gets up from her chair and moves to the door. She locks it from the inside, and closes it behind her. Briskly she makes her way down the wooden stair case and around the hall way.

The first thing that she sees is Roderich, crumpled in a heap on the floor. Above him is a head of white hair, and as red eyes turn to look at her, Elizaveta hardens her features.

The figure's smile splits his face as he looks her over. "Guten Tag, Sugartits."

* * *

Damn, I hadn't realized it had been so long since I updated this...it is unbetad, and quite rough, but here it is. Reviews are lovely.


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